A Leg, A Father and Another Leg
by shaemichelle
Summary: Wilson calls House to pick him up from a bar after Amber dies. An accident is caused. A leg is cost. Hopefully, it won't cost the friendship as well. FORMERLY KNOWN AS Untitled.
1. Chapter 1

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

"This doesn't help," House said softly as we sat at the red light. "I'm not one to criticize, but getting _this_ plastered isn't good for you."

"You were just as bad when Stacy left," I snapped, looking out the window into the raining darkness halfway to House's apartment, where I lived, my own home reeking of Amber. This had to be the second time I'd called him to get me this week, and it was only Wednesday. I had taken a bereavement leave, and House had taken three weeks off to watch out for me, his vacation time for the year.

"So I know that much better than you how it doesn't do shit. It doesn't help," House said, looking over at me. I felt his gaze, and looked into his blue eyes. He didn't say anything else, but the fact he had said anything at all showed me I was starting down a path even he had said no to. And if Greg House, the drug-addicted sociopath, thought I was being unreasonable, then it must be getting bad. I wondered if I looked like shit.

I looked away, his concern freaking my alcohol-addled brain out. "Light's green."

I heard him sigh, barely audible. The car moved forward, and a screeching terrified me. House yelled and I felt the car lurch as he floored the brakes. Something struck the car and we spun on waterlogged ground. Things seemed to be moving slowly, lights of coffee shops and TVs left on in houses blurring into odd patterns. I held onto the armrest of my seat, trying to keep myself in place. I felt myself flung against my seatbelt, bruising my ribs and knocking my breath away from my body for what felt like years, as the car spun with the force of the impact. We stopped spinning violently.

Slamming the front of the car into a sad city maple, it fell through the windshield. I blinked. In the wet road moments later, and the airbag exploded, hitting my face. House's car was a piece of crap, fat lot of good the deflated bag did. I panted, head spinning, trying to comprehend, until tinkling glass made me glance over... Over at House. House! I couldn't see around the tree...

"House!" I cried, unbuckling my seatbelt and pushing at my door. It opened easily, and I almost fell out. Lights stung my eyes and I stared at the driver who hit us. He was probably as drunk as I had been before adrenaline sobered me and rested unconscious against his airbag.

His window was broken, glass marring his scruffy jaw, the door twisted and embedded in his left leg—his healthy leg. Blood poured from his gashed forehead, no doubt from his legs as well, and his blue eyes were still open, unfocused and clouded. A bit of blood bubbled red from his mouth, hopefully from a cut and not his stomach.

I stared, shocked, for what seemed like an eternity. His eyes fell shut, and he was still. Too still. I yanked on what seemed like a handle-like fold in decimated door. It didn't move a millimeter.

I tried to figure out if I could get around the tree or the crushed door. I tugged and heard him gasp nearly imperceptivly. I fumbled in my pocket, pulling out my cell and dialing.

_9-1-1._

* * *

_Wilson doesn't want to be helped right now, House, I told myself. He'll be more receptive tomorrow, when he's sober. If not you can always play the "I-got-out-of-bed-at-one-in-the-morning-to-pick-your-drunk-ass-up-again" card. I never thought it'd be me asking someone to quit drinking._

"Light's green."

I turned back to the road. What could I do to help him? I didn't even like _Amber! It was my fault, not his, she died and he was the one who was self-destructing. My wipers cleared the glass temporarily and I started forward, resisting the urge to gun it. I just wanted my bed, my forgotten Vicodin, sitting on my bedside table at home in my haste to get to Wilson, before he got hypothermia. Bartender on Baker was known for kicking drunks to the curb, and Wilson certainly counted as a drunk. Raining the way it was, he'd be frozen in a half hour._

Still, inebriated, he'd freak if I floored it, so a reasonable speed it was. I saw a strange light in the corner of my eye and I turned my head to glance at it. Double white lights, headed straight for us. Someone ran the light. Someone was headed straight for us.

I yelled, I think I tried to get Wilson to duck with my scream, though the car was lined up with me. I slammed the brakes, hoping that if the other guy did too my car would be totaled, not me. I felt rather than the impact of the two cars. How fast was he going, to hit me that hard? I was flung against my seatbelt, my collarbone straining to stay intact... at the same time...

I heard my window buckle and shatter with the force of an explosion, cutting my face. Pain, almost as bad as it had been in the infarction, struck, biting, tearing, clawing at my leg.

We spun for what seemed like ages, glass flying, pain burning at me. Slowly stopping. I flopped against my seatbelt. I can't stand the pain, blood wetting my jeans. I see (through branches?) Wilson rub his face, checking for damage as he turns to me. I try to hold onto consciousness, tell him I'm OK. I don't know what happened... Why was everything hurting? Blood stings my eyes and they shut, and I lose sight of Wilson. Just rest for a minute, get hold...

"House!" I snap my eyes open and all I see is dark lines and small light. Where...?

I try to make a sound as Wilson's door slams and I hear his wet footsteps circling the car. I try to make a sound but he doesn't hear me. Something pulls at the pain in my legs, and I lose my feeble grip on awareness, letting darkness warm me...


	2. Chapter 2

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

I watched the firefighters biting the car door with the Jaws of Life. A paramedic wrapped a blanket around my shoulders as I explained what happened. I was drunk, House had picked me up. Our light was green and the other drunk driver ran his red light, slamming directly into House's door, bending the metal to tear his leg.

The other driver was laughing as EMTs tried to make him lie down on their gurney. He was still plastered, no idea what he had cost House—cost him his good leg. One forced him to exhale into a breathalyzer. The officer of the police swore as she read the lighted display.

"We need to get this guy to a real hospital. The medics at the station can't help someone this far gone," she said, tossing the machine back to her partner to

I rode with House in the ambulance despite the EMT's protests. I was House's medical proxy and should be allowed to ride with him, especially since I wasn't hurt. They worked around me, cutting off his denims to get at his bloodied legs. I couldn't look. His right leg was pitted and scarred from a decision made by Stacy years ago, and his left, his good leg, looked even worse.

"He might lose it, Jimmy," Mike Walter, the EMT, told me as we whipped down the streets, back to the hospital. "It's bad, I can't even stop the bleeding. It's smashed into pieces, no amount of surgical pins could fix this. It'd be like building it out of matches!"

"He can't lose that leg, Mike," I said desperately. My phone buzzed and I glanced at the ID. Lisa.

"Excuse me, it's Dr. Cuddy," I said lamely. How did she know about this already? She never called me, she only paged. Calling meant an emergency. Like this one.

"James? It's me, what happened?" she asked, her voice panicked.

"Some drunk guy hit the driver's side of the car; he must've been doing at least 90 clicks," I explained, watching as one EMT stitched House's forehead and the other tried to stop the bleeding in his left side.

"Are you OK?" she asked, then huffed. "You must be, you're lucid—"

"House was driving, Lisa," I snapped. "The EMTs say he might lose the leg." I knew everyone could tell I was close to tears but I didn't care. I was there when House's infarction took the use of his right leg, I remembered how he hated knowing his lacrosse-playing days were over, hated knowing that Stacy was repulsed by the scar. He was terrified that they would have to amputate.

Now Wilson was feeling the fear for him.

"No! Can't they... Do something?"

"They can't even stop the bleeding, it's that bad!" I rubbed my face, ignoring the sting of bruises.

"I'll have the OR prepped for him. Are you OK, physically?"

"Just bruised. I don't even think I'm concussed," I said sarcastically. "I'll meet you at the hospital." I hung up, unable to focus on Lisa just now. House was more important right now.

* * *

"I can't do anything for him, Wilson," Dr Hammond said shortly. He was still wearing bloody scrubs and a surgical cap. "The leg has to go—if not because of the torn arteries, but the broken bones. No amount of surgical pins could rebuild the bones. Ever built a femur out of pins? And the knee! Don't get me started."

"There must be something you can do," I insisted, wincing as a nurse pressed on my bruised ribs, checking for breaks I knew weren't there.

"Well... There is one thing, I mean, it's risky..."

"What is it?" I demanded immediately. This was more like it. I knew there was something to be done for House.

"Amputation. Sign the damn form," he said. "He's lost a lot of blood, we'll be lucky if he wakes up. Don't push his chances by making me try to fix what can't be fixed." I met Hammond's eyes, a muddy green filled with concern for me and my friend.

I reached for the consent form, hating what I was about to do. House said once, while high and therefore unable to lie to me, that he forgave Stacy for her choice to override his wishes, before she left him.

He'll forgive me for choosing the only choice, just to keep him alive.

* * *

It had been about twelve hours since the ICU let me visit House and I had no idea how long it had been since he got out of surgery. I hadn't slept yet, I was too nervous about House's reaction to the amputation. Besides, Cameron thought there was a slim chance i had a concussion, so I couldn't sleep here in any case.

He was still, unmoving. Why was House so still? He shouldn't be still! After the infarction surgery, he woke as soon as the anesthetic wore off. After he shoved a knife into an electric socket in his wall, he woke and I got to call him an idiot.

Now, he should be waking and calling me an idiot. I let my head fall back against the semi-comfortable recliner, just resting my tired eyes for a moment...

"Wilson."

I jerked awake. I knew that voice. I knew that voice well, though I'd never heard it that desperate before. I sat up in the chair by House's bed, instantly awake. His face was dark with bruising, brown clotted cuts barely standing out. His eyes, one swollen nearly shut, were confused.

"Wilson..."

"I'm here, House," I told him, leaning forward.

"Where—?"

"It's OK, you're in the ICU. Don't worry, you're OK—for the most part. What do you remember?"

"You called me. Did I pick you up?" he asked. I nodded, letting him piece together the story. "And then the car got hit. Accordion crunch, right?" I nodded again. "You're OK? Anything broken?"

"No, I'm completely fine. Cameron thinks I have a minor concussion but I doubt it. You had a bit more of a rough time of it, though," I said. "You—"

"I can't feel my leg," he said blankly, blinking as he realized this. "I can't feel it. I feel my bad leg, so I'm not paralyzed. It should be broken by the crash, it should hurt... Wilson, I can't feel my leg!" He began to panic, his heart rate rising as he tried to sit, the tight wrapping around his smashed ribs not allowing him to. It was rising very fast, and I was concerned about the arteries in his leg bursting with the increased pressure and him going into cardiac arrest, his heart still weakened by the loss of blood and near-death.

"Calm down," I said, standing over him. "I'll explain." He went still, and I looked away from his clouded blue eyes, unable to face him as I told him what I did. I looked at the flat blanket where his leg should be, the empty space resting beside the small dent in the blanket where he had a pothole in his right leg.

"The impact caused the metal in the broken door to tear your left leg into pieces. They had to... They.... They had to amputate." I looked back up at him, and he looked away. "I'm sorry, House, I'm so sorry."

He thumbed the bed control, raising himself to a seated position. He ran a hand down his left hip, down a few inches of thigh... Onto the flat blanket beside his remaining leg. I watched his eyes analyze the damage. Damage I'd signed off on.

"I'm sorry," I said again, nearly crying as his usually stoic face portrayed his shock for me to see. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, Wilson," House said, almost automatically. "You didn't do this."

"I signed the consent," I explained. "I told them they could take your leg."

"Still not your fault," House said. "You're level-headed and there's no way you did this without considering every other possibility."

"Are you comforting me? You lost you leg—your good leg! You're not mad?"

"At the idiot who ran the light, not you." House seemed to be recovering from shock, his heart still fluttering. His guitar-calloused fingers felt his newly-acquired stump gingerly from the edge of the cast one his broken arm, inspecting how much leg he had left. "Why did he?"

"Drunk driver," I said softly, sitting on the bed. The absence of the left leg left plenty of room on the edge for me. House listened, not saying anything as he felt the torn flesh they had been able to save, stitches and staples running up just past his hip.

"He, uh, died if a cerebral bleed en route to the hospital," I offered, watching House's now-blank face. "His parents are deceased and his fiancee left with their daughter the night before he went on his binge."

"Are you OK?" House asked, pulling away from his stump to stare at me.

"Fine. No broken bones, not even a cut from the shattered window," I said, almost wishing he had something broken as well, so House wouldn't be the only one suffering repercussions.

"Good..."

* * *

A/N: Thanks to all who reviewed! I was so busy writing this that I haven't replied to most of you, but I will soon!


	3. Chapter 3

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

"You think he'll be able to walk now?" Chase asked me, as he switched House's morphine bag. House was out like a light, asleep and staying that way. I shrugged.

"He's House," I answered. "He'll find a way. I think he'll be alright." Chase nodded, not convinced as he sat down in the chair across from mine.

"I scrubbed in on the surgery," the Aussie revealed. "He's lucky he's alive, Wilson. I didn't know legs could be turned into hamburger, let alone what his spleen looked like when we stopped the bleeding there."

"That bad?"

"No chance. Even if... The chance of the survival of the muscles there... Does he... Is he angry with you for signing the consent?" Chase asked, brushing his hair out of his face. "I mean, we didn't really need it, it was emergency surgery..."

"But House's wishes were very clear despite the fact he was unconscious," I finished for him.

"No, he woke up for about a minute," Chase explained. "He asked if you were OK, then started babbling. I think he was nearly delusional, he mentioned a Stacy and no amputation before he passed out. Which is why we needed you to sign."

I absorbed this information, then asked, "How long do you think it'll be before we know if he can walk?"

"Probably about six months. He'll need another surgery in two to remove the surgical braces in his pelvis and what's left of his femur," Chase said. "Has he woken?"

"Yeah, he was lucid for about twenty minutes until he fell asleep because of the insane amount of morphine he's on."

"Well, he did have pretty extensive injuries," Chase defended, bristling slightly.

"No, I'm not saying he's trying to get high," I explained. "I just meant I feel like it's my fault he needs that much. Him being high is just an added bonus."

"This is true," House said, yawning.

"Welcome back to the land of the living," Chase said as House raised his bed up.

"Don't joke," House scolded. "From what I hear it was awfully close."

"Sorry," Chase said. "I ordered you a pizza, and I already paid. That's the limit of my being-nice-to-you, just so you know."

"That's all I needed, dude," House responded, flashing a peace sign at Chase as he left.

"Do you really think a pizza is healthy for you right now?" I asked. House snorted.

"I hardly think my broken bones care what type of cheese gives them calcium," he answered sarcastically. "Besides, calories will give me an ass like Cuddy's."

"Becoming," I complimented dryly, humouring him.

"It was that or highlights," House said. "How long till I can walk again?" I sighed. The news was hard for me to hear and it wasn't even my leg.

"If you can with one bad leg and a metal fake one, probably six months," I answered. He looked down, puckering his nose the way he did when nervous. "Did I mention I was sorry about what I caused?"

"Did I mention you're an idiot for apologizing?" he asked, matching my sorrowful gaze with an acerbic version all his own.

"I think so. You in pain?" I asked, glancing at his solid vitals. He shook his head then nodded towards the IV dripping morphine. "I know... I just worry."

"Guess what, Wilson?" he prodded.

"What?"

"You should worry about the fact you haven't showered in three days."

* * *

"Welcome home!" I said, holding the door open for him with my foot. House was still entrapped in his wheelchair, and he insisted on wheeling himself everywhere, not allowing me to push him or help him. His jeans lay conspicuously flat on the seat, his eyes just as sharp as they used to be.

"You cleaned," he said, tossing his backpack onto my bed, in the corner of the main room. He inspected the minor changes I have made in the three and a half weeks he was in hospital. "You cleaned everything."

"Is that a good or bad thing?" I asked, grabbing the backpack and taking it to his room. I could almost hear the wheels in his head turning.

"Maybe. Depends on how bad of a job you did," he responded, rolling into the kitchen and swinging the fridge open, laughing. "You bought food!"

"Yeah, sorry if I, like normal humans, enjoy eating real food," I muttered, leaning against the counter and watching him. There were still some stitches tangled in his temple and a few in his hairline.

"Silly," he muttered, grabbing a couple of beers. He left them in the empty space in his lap, rolling over to the couch. "I hope you recorded the episode of GH last night. I heard Sonny decided to marry Claudia and not Kate, and Johnny walked out."

"Don't tell me! I want to watch and find out what happens," I protested. He chuckled, putting the beers on the table and hoisting himself onto the couch, teetering on his bum leg for a dangerous second. Finally sitting, he lifted his leg, resting his foot on the table, and flicking through his DVR. I sat beside him, grabbing the beers and putting my own feet up.

We watched intently, not really talking. As he fast-forwarded through commercials I spoke.

"I heard your getting your fake leg in a week," I tried. He grunted. "That's good. Means the orthopedic guy thinks you can walk on that leg." He didn't really say anything as the show began again. He's not going to talk about it, I told myself.

As the next commercial break came up, right after Johnny walked out on his family to convince his girlfriend or wife (I couldn't recall who she was, or what her name was) to run off with him.

"I don't think I'll be able to walk," he said, muting the adverts instead of skipping ahead. "I think my leg won't be strong enough to support me anymore than it did before."

I mulled over his words, deciding what to say. "I think you will. You're too stubborn to not—"

"Stubborn has nothing to do with it, Wilson. Pain, however, has about ninety percent to do with it. I could barely move onto the couch, how am I gonna be able to walk?" he asked. I thought on it, absently watching the new Apple MacBook advert.

"We could try ketamine again when they remove the metal in your hip in a week or so," I said.

"We could. But what are the chances of it working this time?" he demanded bitterly, tossing the cap of his beer bottle onto the table angrily. "I'd have weeks of struggling to get the muscle to strength, and if it failed again, I... I wouldn't even have two months of being able to run, and run, and run."

The wistfulness in his voice surprised me, and I stared at House as he stared at the still-muted screen. I hadn't realized he'd done so much running when he took eight weeks off. I knew he'd done his own rehab, something I had been concerned about at first. When he ran eight miles from his apartment to the hospital, I was a bit worried about what he did, or really, what he took in order to do it.

When I visited his apartment after work, he was never home. I hadn't realized he'd be out somewhere running, keeping the muscle exercised, maybe playing lacrosse with those teens who scrimmaged in the park by his house. Now, he looked genuinely upset that his leg had failed on him. Sure, I had expected him to be upset his chance to not be a cripple for the rest of his life had crapped out on him, but he never showed his emotions.

He barely showed any emotion he told me about why Stacy left... How upset was he about this, to lose control?

"I still think you should try," I said softly. "You never know how things might play out."

"No."

"Why—?" I began, surprised by his vehement, instantaneous reaction.

"I'm not willing to risk that disappointment again," he said, unmuting the TV, effectively shutting himself out.

* * *

A/N: There you have it. There might be a longer wait for chapter four because it's not co-operating with me.


	4. Chapter 4

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

"Hey," I said. House tossed a roll of gauze at me from the couch. He was changing the bandage on his stump, and I had to say, it looked rather gross. Stump. I needed to find a better word for it. "I ordered Thai for dinner today."

"Didn't feel like cooking tonight?" House asked, distracted as a piece of tape pulled on a scab. I shook my head at him when he looked up. "You're staring."

"Sorry," I said immediately, averting my gaze. "I mean, I didn't mean to—"

"It's fine," he said, surprising me. "You've seen all my scars, I don't care anymore."

"OK," I said, grabbing a glass of water. "That's cool."

"I need that roll I nailed you with," he said, pointing. I pushed off of the counter, tossing him the roll. He snagged it from the air, not really watching. "I think it's infected."

"Really?" I said, moving over to look. Scar tissue had begun to form around the top of the skin they'd used to seal the... appendage, but most of the stitches were still raw. I lifted it cautiously, and inspected the line of thread. "Mm... Not bad. Put some hydrogen peroxide on it later. It'll—"

"Burn away iron and take some germs with it, yeah, I know, I am the country's best diagnostician," he interrupted, pulling away to begin re-dressing the wound. I pulled my hands away, watching him. His jeans were half-off, the left leg cut off, sealed shut by Cameron, who was too nice to him.

"Why get me to look if you know?" I asked, rolling my eyes. He shrugged, looking back down at his work.

"Miss the job yet?" he asked me, taping the gauze in place. "You should go back and leave me to my own devices."

"Nope," I said. "Contrary to popular, well, your belief, cocaine does not help the healing of wounds, nor do drinking contests." He laughed, a real laugh I'd only heard three or four times in our friendship.

"Remember that time, back when I was on the lacrosse team," he began, lost in the past. "And Stacy let us go to NYC with the team? We went to that bar and you got smashed after like three shots?"

I nodded. "And you drank your coach under the table and then challenged the goalie," I supplied, not remembering the actual night, but my hangover the next morning.

"I wasn't even hung over," he chuckled, pulling his pants on over various scars, more than just the infarction scar. Scars I suspected where from one, or god-forbid both, of his parents. "On the bus back, everyone was practically cowering from the light, and I was blasting the radio."

He shook his head, his smile fading, balling the used bandages and tossing the ball like a basketball into the trash can on the other side of the counter, half-hidden from view. I dimly heard it thunk at the bottom.

"There's a game of women's beach volleyball on channel twenty-two," he told me. "Cha-ching! We have found the mother-load of wet bouncing girls who hug each other when excited."

"Woo-ho," I said, getting up to answer the door. He chucked his wallet at me, shocking me, but not enough for me to leave it on the ground where it bounced of my head. "Soft core porn for you, sports for me."

* * *

"I don't have any patients," House said, rolling into my office and popping a wheelie just to freak me out. I hated that, and I had ever since he took his wheelchair (which he had custom made to be indestructible) to the skateboarding park and made me watch him try and kill himself, though he was wearing a helmet. But, he wasn't awake when I had left this morning, and I had expected him to be late as he usually was, despite it being his first day back after the crash, only twenty weeks ago.

"You're on time," I remarked, placing my pen down and leaning back to watch him.

"So people keep telling me," he retorted. "See, I figured out what this thing on my wrist does, so now I know when I'm late. It makes everything so much easier." He tapped his watch for me to see, and I rolled my eyes.

"I see just because you're on time doesn't mean you're not an ass," I said dryly, moving back to my work. He continued to wheel around my office for a moment, before settling and glaring at me.

"A crippled ass, be nice," he scolded. I chuckled quietly. "Why doesn't Cuddy have a case for me? I need a puzzle."

"She's probably expecting you late, like I did," I explained, shutting my file. "How did you get here on time? I left the apartment at eight-thirty and you hadn't even gotten up yet."

"I don't shave everyday, makes getting ready faster. I also don't blow-dry my hair," he said, shifting his right "leg" with a hand.

"Didn't blow-dry today," I commented, opening another consult file.

"I know. You were being cute and tried not to wake me up," he said, cocking a head and smiling at me. I smiled back, wary of a prank coming up. He was being too nice, or perhaps I missed the sarcasm. "Think I can hop the balcony wall, or should I roll around?"

"I'd roll around," I answered. He glared at me.

"Think I can't make it over the wall? It's barely waist-height, to us tall people anyway, short stuff," he teased, fiddling with a small stuffed giraffe that a four-year-old had given me to "hold on to" while he was having a tumor removed from his brain. The surgery was actually quite successful, but a reaction to the antibiotics we gave him boxed his kidneys. "I can make it over. My leg can support me long enough to pull my chair over too."

"First, I'm only two inches shorter than you," I pointed out. "Second, don't screw with my stuff—" House was now looking at a framed picture of a mother of triplets I'd managed to place in a six-year relapse "—and third, I agree you could do it, but not so smart, since you fell on that leg at the skatepark two days ago and still have a wicked bruise. Not worth the risk of falling. Go solve a Rubik's Cube or something, until you get a patient."

"Rubik's cube, hah. Too easy. I'll just go annoy people in clinic, then," he said, spinning his chair around.

"Whoa, whoa, hold on a sec," I said. He waited, rolling his eyes at me. "You're on time, then you willingly head to clinic? Who are you and how are you impersonating Gregory House's smugness so well?"

"Is smugness my defining quality? I would think it's my bitching chair," he said, tapping his seat for me to see, band logos and bumper stickers decorating it. "On my way up, I saw a guy with a cockroach in his ear," he answered, flinging open my door.

"Really? How'd he manage that?"

"We'll see, won't we? Might win me first place in Weekly Weirdest-Thing-Pulled-Out-of-an-Orifice contest. Meet you for lunch at one," he said by way of farewell, and shut the door behind him. Cameron knocked about five minutes later, opening the door at my call.

"Did you reprogramme him?" she demanded. "He's in a wheelchair but not depressed about it, he's actually in clinic, he's actually on time! Why is he—"

"I haven't a clue," I answered. She was still leaning into my office, the door half-open and her half-out.

"He said hello this morning," she continued, still ranting slightly as she expressed her own shock. "He mocked my pink scrubs a moment later, but he gave me three civil sentences! I don't know what you're doing that's making him semi-human, but it's working." She straightened, closing the door.

Wasn't House human before?

* * *

"I won second," he said, settling down across from me. I nodded, thrilled.

"I'm proud. Fries?" he took some of my double-serving, his meal I bought everyday. Now that I was living with him, it was almost like rent.

"Whoa. I pull a cockroach out of a guy's ear and you don't want to know what won first?" he demanded, stuffing a fry in his mouth.

"Will it make a difference if I say no?"

"Probably not," he answered. I placed down the fry I held in my hand, waiting.

"Is it gross?"

"That's the point of the contest, see who can yank the nastiest thing out of a hole in somebody, piercing in odd place not included. That has its own contest, right," he clarified, taking the fry from my hand.

"Then shoot," I said, pushing my fries towards him.

"A potato via rectum. Guy said he was hanging curtains in the nude and fell onto the table, and boom! Potato up the ass," House explained with a small chuckle.

"Wow, that's fairly disgusting," I answered. He swallowed a fry, chasing it down with my Diet Coke, which he insisted tasted better than any and all Pepsi products. "In fact, I almost wish I hadn't heard it."

"Dude, it's a potato. Think about it, why was it chilling on this old dude's counter? I mean, it's in a bag or it's in a pot. You don't need to thaw it or anything, there's no chilling time for it. Think about what he must have been really doing."

My mind flooded with the image. "OK, 9 out of 10 on the House-ian Nasty scale."

"Thanks," he said, beaming. I nodded, rolling my eyes internally.

"No problem."


	5. Chapter 5

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

I stopped outside the apartment, listening to the music floating out through the door. House was playing piano, something I'd never heard him do before. He 'shredded' on the guitar occasionally, and he was quite impressive. His horrid electronic rendition of Fur Elise wasn't quite as nice, but he had only played half before stopping because of my complaints.

I didn't know he played so well. Part of me thought it might be a CD or vinyl he owned. I opened the door as softly as I could, and sure enough, there he was. He hadn't noticed me come in, sitting as he was in his chair in front of the baby grand he took very good care of.

I didn't recognize what he was playing, but I kept listening, still holding my briefcase and overcoat. He was very good, and looked pretty relaxed. He finished, the final note, a high one, ringing in the air until he released the pedal with his foot and the key with his finger.

"Any requests?" he asked, turning to glare at me. I lowered my head, embarrassed, and shuffled into the kitchenette, dropping my stuff as I went. "I don't generally play for other people, you know."

"You didn't play for other people, you played for me," I said, stupidly saying the first thing to come to my mouth. He shrugged. "What was that, by the way?"

"Claire de Lune. Debussy. Not my favourite though," he said softly, moving away from the keys.

"That's really beautiful, though. What's your favourite? What can you like more than that?" I asked, sitting on the piano bench shoved against the bookcase. He ignored me, as I knew he would, and rolled away from the piano, and I watched him move down the hall to his room, quiet and almost... relaxed. I sniffed the air, searching for a trace of pot I missed earlier, enraptured in his music as the smell dispersed. I found nothing.

Perhaps, he was just in a calm mood. He almost seemed sad. The message machine beeped at me, and I looked over at it. Two new messages. It must've been an ex-Mrs Wilson or my parents, or maybe my brother Jonathan, who House disliked for good reason. That might explain why House was off.

I stood, hitting my head on the shelf above me. A few of House's medical journals fell from their precarious positions on the shelf, missing my head. I placed them back on the shelves, trying to be quiet, knowing House was likely asleep, if high or drunk, by now.

"Gregory," Mrs. House's voice said over the machine. "It's about ten-thirty your time, sorry for calling so late. It's about your father. Things don't look good, he's back in the hospital, and I was hoping you could come down to Baltimore and see him. The doctors here say I should consider putting him on the DNR list, but I need to talk to you. Call me A-S-A-P, honey."

A tinny beep sounded, and the next message began. "Hi, Greg, it's me again. Sorry to call again, but it's about midnight your time now. Your father went into cardiac arrest about twenty minutes ago and he..." she trailed off, letting out a choked sob. "Oh, honey, he passed away. Call me as soon as you get this message. I need to talk to you."

I wonder if he'd called back. I looked at his door, still shut. His dad was dead.

I went to his room, knocking and then entering when he didn't answer. He was sitting by the window, iPod headphones in his ears. I crossed the room quietly, pulling one out.

He gave a small jump and yanked the other one from his ears. "Wilson, creeping on people is not an acceptable way to get them into bed," he quipped, dropping the buds on his lap. "I should know."

"I'm sorry about your dad," I said. He sighed, looking away. "Did you call your mother?"

"After she called the first time, yeah. Not the second. I'll phone in the morning," he said, surprising me with his honesty. "I promise, Evil Step-Wilson." I didn't leave. "Wilson, what do you want?"

"You don't seem that upset that you lost your dad, you know," I said.

"He spent the last three years dying, I had time to be prepared," he snapped, rolling away from me. I turned, following him with my gaze.

"You should still be more upset. I've seen a lot of drawn-out deaths, it still hits hard at first," I said. He turned his chair, glaring at me. "What are you upset about?"

"My cocaine addiction," he said.

"Naturally," I retorted. "How do you plan to solve that?"

"Get addicted to heroin instead. Maybe crack." I found myself derailed for a second.

"I thought crack was cocaine," I remarked. He nodded.

"But it's much different. Cheaper, for one. And yes, I do know from firsthand experience."

"Don't change the subject. Your father, why aren't you upset about that?"

"I hated the man, Wilson, vehemently and completely," he stated, very calm. "The fact that he's dead changes nothing, and that's what's depressing."

"I'm sorry your dad's dead, House. Call your mom in the morning and deal with it, though, OK?" He nodded jerkily.

"I would've even if you hadn't told me. Now go the fuck away."

* * *

"You're not going to the funeral, are you?" I asked him, barging into his office without knocking for once. He was tossing his tennis ball in the air repeatedly, head tilted back as he ignored me. After a minute of me standing there, he tilted his head to a healthy position, staring past me through the door.

"Cyanosis, rapid heart rate, fast breathing, low temperature, weak circulation. The file says it's not hypo-plastic left heart syndrome, so what is it? Patient is three days old," he said instead of answering.

"I don't know. Not cancer," I snapped, rubbing my forehead. I didn't want to deal with his patient now, I wanted to deal with him.

"I'll tell you what it was. Hypo-plastic left heart syndrome."

"But you just said—"

"As did the file. The doctor who referred me the case had the x-ray backwards, making the heart look like it was totally on the right side of the gang line," he said, looking at me finally. "Is that a sign of chronic idiocy or what?"

"An even better sign of idiocy is your refusal to go to your father's funeral!" I cried, waving my arms angrily. He glared, resuming the tossing of his ball.

"I didn't refuse to go. I refused to give a eulogy because Dad's old commanding officer could do a better one," he said, firing the ball at the wall and catching it as it bounced back up to meet him.

"So why aren't you there? I know you cancelled your flight," I told him.

"I decided I'd rather hook up with Cuddy this week," he deflected.

"House!" I clipped, needing to know why he would dare let his mother, a fresh widow after nearly sixty years of marriage, deal with the funeral of her husband on her own.

"There's going to be a zombie attack, so I decided I'd head to the girls dorm at the university and get some margarita's going, one last party, you know." I tried to ask again.

"His will said he didn't want his wife's illegitimate son there," House said. I stopped browbeating him immediately.

"Are you serious?" I asked, shocked. He tossed the ball at me, hitting my forehead as I tried and failed to catch it in its path. It rolled away and he left it on the floor.

"No, it was obvious I would rather hang out with you, who's totally not a buzz-kill," he retorted, pulling a deck of cards out of his desk and beginning to build a card-house. I stood there trying to figure out what to say. "I need a case."

"You need to go to your father's funeral, be there for your mother," I said. He shook his head. "Why the hell not?!"

"She told me to stay away," House said, as the wobbly house collapsed. "You have any cancer that's not cancer?"

"No, I can't give you a consult," I said, turning to go in defeat. "Talk to Cuddy if you want a case."

"Or," he said, reaching into his garbage can, "I can just use one of these." He pulled out about four envelopes, all with names of hospitals stamped across them. "Usually I call back and call the doctors idiots and give them a diagnosis—"

"Just by reading a letter describing symptoms?" I demanded, turning back to him. "There shouldn't be test results or anything in there—"

"Well, all the usual suspects are already shot down, so there be clean MRIs and CTs, and negative tox-screens and other boring things in files," he said, trying and failing to open the letter. His right and dominant hand hadn't worked well since the crash and torn tendons, though I thought it had more to do with blood loss causing minor brain damage and affecting his finer motor skills.

"Screw that idea," he said, tossing the envelope down, digging through a desk drawer. "What else do I have that's fun?" He yanked something out and laid it on his desk. "OK, well, chair leg doesn't really help me here."

"I'll tell Cuddy you want a real case," I said, leaving.

* * *

A/N: Hope you all had a happy Christmas!


	6. Chapter 6

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

"So, your RBC count looks really good, Mrs Kletchka," I said, flipping through labs pinned in her chart. "Normally, I would say you would have to stay in hospital to finish this round of IV chemo, but since your RN of a daughter's been doing your IV meds here anyway, go and enjoy your grandkids."

"Thank you, Doctor Wilson," the fifty year old woman told me, gripping her husband's hand excitedly.

"Thank yourself," I told her, standing to place her chart back on its position on the shelf in my office. "You've been doing such a good job with following your treatment regimen. That's what's speeding your final stage of chemo."

I stood as the couple left the office, talking about their second son's newest child, Patrice. First Christmas for the fourth grandchild, it seemed. I thought to my own family, how they'd be celebrating Hanukkah without me again this year. It had been nearly eighteen months since I'd last seen them.

"Stop feeling guilty," House said as he rolled into my office. I didn't quite understand how he could open the door and slide in at the same time. "I have a consult for you." He tossed a file on my desk and I opened it.

"What am I feeling guilty about?" I asked him as I opened the folder. An ultrasound of a uterus, the file said it was from someone of about forty. I held it up to the light. "And it's endometrial cancer, I'd give her three years with successful chemo."

"Not spending Hanukkah with your family, and celebrating Christmas with me," he said. I don't know how he knew what I was thinking about, especially when we weren't having a conversation, he just blurted out guesses. Guesses usually right.

"I have no idea how you figured that out," I said, pulling some never-ending paperwork from my desk.

"Facial expression is telling, my lonely friend," House said, grabbing a stapler, my cell phone and his cell phone and beginning to juggle. "My test results don't come back for an hour, wanna play D and D? Kutner's starting a game while the other ducklings work."

"What's D and D?" I asked, placing my pen down and watching him juggle.

"Dungeons and Dragons, obviously. I mean, it also stands for drinking and driving but I'd hardly invite you to do that on a Wednesday afternoon, would I? Especially considering our history with drunkenness and its effects on various driving arrangements."

"Shouldn't you be working on your case?" I asked, wondering dimly if he meant when Amber died or when he lost his leg.

"It's some lung problem. I can't narrow it down till my tests come back," he said. "The symptoms make about as much sense as having Bush in office."

"Yeah, well, Obama's replacing him soon," I offered as constellation. "Least it's not McCain. Sarah Palin is an idiot."

"McCain reminds me of Dora the Explorer," he said, ruining the four-sentence long normal conversation we were enjoying. "I never liked Dora the Explorer. She's a _terrible_ Spanish translator."

"OK, that's normal. No, I have work to do. Give me back my stapler and phone before you leave, please," I said.

"Bet I could roll and juggle at the same time. Fifty bucks says I make it to my office without dropping one."

"Ten bucks says I don't care," I said sarcastically, extending my hand. He tossed me the items, I missed, calling me a spoilsport and flinging open the door. "Hey!" He turned his head, waiting for me. "A hundred bucks says you can stand for three minutes straight."

He spun his chair. "You're on. Eight tonight, my place. Don't be late for the showdown, cowboy."

* * *

_Wake me up, before you go-go. Don't leave hanging here like a yo-yo. _I grabbed my phone and flipped it open, reading my text.

_911 from House at home. When can you get here?_

I switched my phone to ABC mode. He figures if he puts it on T9 often enough I'll learn how to use it. _What did you do?_ I hit send and checked my appointment book. I was clear until noon, more so since I wasn't on code call today. I could probably make it to the apartment in fifteen minutes.

That god-awful ringer he'd set for himself sounded again and I read his message; _Help! I've fallen and I can't get up! Srsly. Get over here._

_On my way. _I grabbed my jacket and keys, leaving my paperwork spread upon my desk, wondering how he fell when he was always in a wheelchair. Lisa was clicking up the hallway, her pencil skirt beige and tight, dark jacket perfectly tailored.

"Where's House?" she demanded, a blue case file in her hand.

"How should I know?" I asked, despite the fact I was off to pick him up.

"You live with him. Was he awake when you left?" she returned.

"Yeah, he was stuffing his face with the pancakes I made him. He was back in bed by the time I got back from the ATM, though," I answered, taking the file from her to look at it.

"Why were you at an ATM before nine in the morning?" she asked.

"I lost a bet. That's why I made him pancakes and owed him one hundred dollars," I said. "Looks like an infection throwing clots. He'd call you an idiot, put her on pen and be done with it."

"No elevated white count," Lisa said, taking the file back. "I'll pass it the his lackeys for now. Where you headed?"

"Um, I have to take House to PT tonight so I'm getting groceries now since I have no appointments," I lied. She raised an eyebrow, not really believing me.

"Right. Tell House to get his ass in here," she told me, and we both pretended she sounded less skeptical than she really did as she began stalking off. I opened the door to the stairwell, making it to my car in record speed.

I unlocked the door to the apartment almost ten minutes later, calling, "House!"

"Hallway," he said, sounding ill. I went to him and saw him, his bad, well, only leg twisted under him, a fake one sticking out of his PJ's, clearly attached to his, um, stump. I still didn't know what else to call it, and he called it a stump, so at least I didn't feel so bad.

"House... What were you thinking?" I asked him, kneeling and pulling his real leg straight. He gasped, grabbing the wall with a sweaty hand.

"You dared me to stand and I did it," he grunted as I felt along the muscle, looking for knots where heat or massage would ease pain faster than Vicodin. "So I got curious. How far can I walk? I got from the bedroom to the couch to the kitchen and then my leg gave."

"You ever hear the expression, curiosity killed the cat?" I asked him, working on a spot in his leg. He grimaced and hissed.

"Yep. And satisfaction brought it back," he quipped.

"Are you really satisfied with how this turned out?" I demanded, glaring at him.

"Well, no. But I usually am. It's an erratic result, toss it out and keep going," he rationalized, his last words hitched as I helped him up. He was paler than I'd like under most circumstances, but not as sweaty as he was last time I'd received a 911 page from him, before I'd began dating Amber.

He sat there, panting, his eyes squeezed shut as he clutched his leg. "I'll get your chair," I said, going to the bedroom. I rolled the chair out to him and helped him lurch into the chair. I felt his pockets, but there was no cylindrical lump of pill bottle. Leaving a settled House in his chair, I went to a suit jacket draped over the back of the couch, digging through the pockets for his Vicodin. Finding it, I shook out two and brought them to him, I held them out but his eyes were still shut.

"House," I murmured. "House, take these Vicodin." He nodded but didn't move, hands still clutching at his leg. Apparently moving it had done more harm than good. I rested the pills on the chair for now, resuming the massage of what was left of the muscle after leaning the fake leg against the kitchen doorframe. Slowly, after about a quarter of an hour, he relaxed and took the pills.

The phone rang, and I went to it as House opened his eyes and regained cognitive function. "Caller ID says it's Cuddy," I told him.

"Tell her I'll be in in a bit. I'm putting on pants."

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the bit of a wait. I'm at the WORLD JUNIORS IN OTTAWA, which is boss. Also, I was robbed of 530 bucks worth of stuff in my rental car. Woot-woot (sarcasm)!


	7. Chapter 7

(Disclaimer: The HOUSE MD franchise is one that I do not own or claim. It was created by David Shore and its rights are owned, exclusively or otherwise, by Fox Entertainment and/or its shareholders and mother/sister companies.)

* * *

I shook my head at House, alone in the skatepark but for a fourteen year old boy. The boy was sitting on the lip of the pool-like cementation, eating Mickey D fries as he watched House try to jump the pail he'd placed on one of the tabletops. The boy thought it was hilarious as well. We laughed in unison as House cursed spectacularly as he wiped out yet again.

"I almost got it, gimme one more!" House called, hauling himself back into the wheelchair, tightening his helmet as he rolled down the far ramp of the tabletop. "Twenty bucks says I land it this time."

"House, it's nine o'clock, I've got work to do," I complained, not accepting the bet. I paid him another one hundred bucks under a week ago, betting on how long it would take for Foreman to "hook up" with Thirteen now that she was in his drug trial; I wasn't going to lose any more bets for a while. "Let's go before you hurt yourself."

"I won't hurt myself," he said, rolling up the lip and back down to the tabletop. He rolled up, flicked one wheel, and soared over the pail in a one-eighty with little height to spare. As he rolled down the ramp on the far side, he pumped a fist in the air, excited. "I'm a legend!"

"Legends usually die in a fight for a cause, House. I hardly think you'll die pissing off clinic patients, but you have been shot and held hostage before, so you never know." Peeling off his helmet as he stopped, he glared at me.

"The hostage situation was hardly my fault, you know," he protested, his hair dark with sweat. He'd been at it for nearly two hours, and now that he'd landed one, I think I'll be able to get him out of here.

"You done? I want to go home and do some paperwork," I told him, shaking my head for what seemed like the thousandth time. "You landed it, I'll make you dinner, let's go home."

"Fine, we can go," House said, rolling out of the cementation. "But in the morning, you're making waffles."

"I'm not making you food every time you think I lose a bet," I said. "You should learn to cook for yourself, because I won't always be around to feed you."

"Probably not, but the good folks at Tim's Twenty-Four-Hour Pizzeria will be," he retorted, tossing me his helmet as we began out of the cement rimming of the park towards the street where we had parked. I waited for him to climb into my car, grabbing his chair and placing it in the back for him.

"Pull up around the kid," House told me. I furrowed my brow at him, but he was watching the kid, still on the lip of the pool-like park. He rolled down his window and I stopped beside the kid, who turned to meet House's eye.

"What do you want?" he asked with surprising attitude. House shrugged.

"Just wanted to tell you your parents miss you, so you should probably head home now. You stayed out overnight, you made your point about whatever you were arguing about." He rolled up the window and I took that as my cue to drive.

"Who was that kid?" I demanded as we turned right onto the main street. "How did you know he was a runaway?"

"He had dirt on only one side of his body, but it was faint," he answered, pressing the buttons on my Sirius Satellite Radio. "So my guess was he wasn't pushed to the ground, but he slept on a park bench in the playground here—" he pointed to the park with a bench under a tree "—and he was eating McDonald's but wasn't fat or malnourished so it isn't a usual occurrence. He was also at a skatepark without a skateboard."

"That's just wild," I said, semi-sarcastically. "And I'm not listening to whatever this is." He snorted.

"Why the hell not? To the window, to the wall, till the sweat drops off my balls!" he cried as he blasted the rap in my car. I punched the button, killing his buzz, as he would say. "Get Low is a classic, you party-pooper."

"No," I disagreed, taking a quick look at his sweat drenched head before turning back to the road, turning left. "Debussy is classic, even early Michael Jackson qualifies by pure fame. Beatles are classic. Lil John isn't anything resembling appropriate, let alone respectable."

"You just don't understand rap music," House said, the tone of his voice telling me he wasn't trying to make a point anymore, just annoy me.

"Explain a lyric to me," I said, turning the radio sound back on. Heavy bass lines poured out of the speakers. Move bitch, get out the way, move bitch, get out the way! I turned off the music. "OK, House, you're golden. Explain it to me."

"Break it down intellectually?" he asked as I pulled onto Baker Street. I echoed him, nodding my head. "Well, as you can see, there's a bitch in his way, that he needs to move." I laughed, and he continued as we approached the building. "You need to open your eyes, so you can get the bitches out of your way!"

I slowed in front of the building, sighing as I realized someone—a someone without handicap tags on their car—had jacked the spot we usually parked in on the side of the building. Granted, it wasn't our spot officially, but since it was reserved for our apartment building and House was the only one in a wheelchair... Who parks in a handicap spot when they're not handicapped anyway?


End file.
